


here's to the mess we make

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Nostalgia, THIS IS A BELLARKE FIC GUYS, bellarke fic okay, but that's a bellarke fic, clarke is a cardiologist who doesn't deal well with her own heart, clexa is here and there's a lot of it and it's important, fixing mistakes of the youth basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: " here's to the fools, who dream/ crazy as they may seem / here's to the hearts that break/ here's to the mess we make" - Emma Stone "Audition/ Fools Who Dream" // Suddenly, Clarke Griffin - a happy wife and a respected cardiologists, starts to wonder about what she exactly wanted her life to be like, when she was younger. And somehow, she can't seem to get rid of those thoughts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is one big mess of my feelings, written when I was still really into the 100 and edited when - well. I wasn't so much into it. So keep that in mind. Also remember that I'm NOT a native speaker, so small mistakes may occur - even though Lana ( maraudersgroupie) sure did her best to eliminate as much of them as it's possible. Speaking of Lana- I love you babe, without your imput this work would be still dusting somewhere in a forgotten file on my computer. Your encouragement means a world for me <3.  
> I strongly recommend listening to all the songs mentioned in this fic, if not to "feel" more, than just because they're all great and amazing.  
> So... Enjoy ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Edited: 
> 
> I honestly don't understand anyone from clexa fandom that let a comment underneath my work. First of all, I stated openly in the tags that this is a BELLARKE FIC. Anyone of you could see it and decide not to click on it! IT WAS RIGHT AT THE BEGGINING! But you did it anyway and then you shitted on me in the comments bc why not. Second of all - I tagged clexa as a paring bc IT IS a paring in this fic, whether or not they end up togethe and he "relationship" category is to tag ALL the relationships that are featured in the work. I'm a bisexual girl and the comment that " not putting two female characters together at the end is biphobic/lesbophobic" is simply... laughable to me. Never in this fic I wrote Lexa as a villian. Never did I show clexa relationship as a mistake. Never did I make them unhealthy or not in love with each other. And it was definitely not my intention to ever show them in that way. Being bi means that you like BOTH genders. Ending up with a man doesn't make you less bi. Ending up wih a woman doesn't make you less bi. Lexa's and Bellamy' genders have NOTHING to do with how their respective relationships with Clarke played out. People fall in and out of love all the time! It's normal! And I refuse to spend another half an hour showing to you, like to children, what were Clarke's motivations for doing what she did. I refuse to point you to direct quotes from the fic that show how much she loves Lexa and that seaching for Bellamy is more connected to her searching for the person she was when she was with Bellamy, than with Bellamy himself. It's all in my fic ( which is not gross. or disgusting. or harmful. or lesbophobic. or any of the things you accused it of being) . All you have to do is read the tags properly and then read the fic if you want... and maybe take of your incredibly biased shipper glasses while doing that. Peace out.

 

  ** **Part one: cold day in heaven****

 

 

**‘’look at all the stars they have fallen**

**there’s nothing left though you still wishing**

**the sun it doesn’t rise in the morning**

**it’s frozen’’**

**-** "cold day in heaven" by delta rae

 

The drive from the hospital seems somehow longer today.

Normally, she would stay for a couple more hours, checking on her patients and organizing schedule for the next day, but her mother has just come back from her honeymoon and seemed quite interested in starting a conversation with her about it, which was a thing Clarke just couldn’t handle at the moment. She wished Abby all the best and Kane too, to be honest; they had a rough start, but now they somehow worked it out pretty well.

But seeing her mother all bright-eyed and pink-cheeked and in love and somehow twenty years younger felt like a punch in the stomach, like a cold bucket of water, like an unwelcomed awakening. Clarke has been existing in a weird, if not unpleasant, state of numbness lately and she found it hard to deal with, to have this bubble gone so suddenly.

This made her feel things and think things and it made her all so damn bitter. Bitter and angry and disappointed. And now she drives home early, all but escaping her mother but not really being able to escape from those feelings.

Because, the truth is, after seeing her mother’s blunt and honest happiness, Clarke realized with painful clarity that her own life should be just more. And by ‘’more’’ she means; more than graveyard shifts and drinking too much wine to fall asleep and avoiding her reflection in the mirror and working too much just to forget that her marriage is in ruins.

She deserves more. She worked for more, not for… this.

Her life somehow, somewhere along the way became less. One day she was just a wild child, singing ‘Ain’t Your Mama’ with Raven while dancing barefoot on the grass in front of their dorm and then somehow, on the next she was one of those miserable cardiologists that, in theory are married to a person, but in reality they are married to their work.

She kicks black pumps off and puts her aching feet on the countertop; there is a bottle of Jack Daniels on the cupboard and she’ll reach out for it in a moment to wash off the bitter taste from her tongue, but for now, she closes her eyes and tries to empty her mind from the –

Bad things.

‘’How can I be so good with other people’s hearts’’ – she thinks bitterly, running fingers through her hair, ruining her neat up do- ‘’And so absolutely fucking shit with my own?’’

Lexa called her today, on her lunch break and Clarke was listening to her without even hearing anything while staring at old lettuce and pale tomato in her salad and then the word ‘adoption papers’ rang in her ears like the alarm clock and she somehow just – ended the call without uttering any excuse. She’s not gonna run from this topic as easily, she knows it; it will require her to actually talk, have a conversation with her own wife. She wonders, when this thought became so terrifying and unbearable. Especially since she has no idea what she actually wants to tell Lexa?

‘’I don’t want a kid’’ would be a lie and ‘I don’t want a kid with you’ would be not only terrible cruel but also not entirely true either. The truest thing to say would probably be ’I don’t want a kid with you right now’ but she somehow can’t imagine articulating those words.

Their stainless, Italian-marble and chrome kitchen turns all pink and red;  the huge window right above the sink is situated perfectly to watch the sun setting, huge, violently colorful sphere seemingly sinking into the grey waters of Lake Alberta. When they just bought this house, she was enchanted by this view; she imagined sitting on the porch at evenings with Lexa by her side and two kids playing hide and seek in the willow trees on the shore. Usual newlyweds fantasies that never come true and even if they do, they do it in a wicked way. Fairytale turned into trap; love gone cold.

Clarke could count on fingers of one hand how many times she was home before dark this month and Lexa is too busy at work to even realize that time actually passes. Neither of them have any space in their lives for a child and Clarke doesn’t even know why Lexa presses her so hardly about it.  The more bitter side of her thinks it’s in order to look good; poster family, two point five children, golden retriever and a white porch, and a beautiful, golden-haired, Yale educated wife are the biggest friends of every politician.

But the side of Clarke that remembers all the tender nights and gentle kisses and words delicate as feathers wants to believe that Lexa wants children because she thinks it will heal their marriage. Mend what’s broken. Restore the balance.

Clarke doesn’t share this opinion.

 

Her thoughts come back to Raven; stunning Raven with a bright mind and quick hands and passionate heart. Raven, Clarke and then Octavia, with her beautiful face covered in bruises and black tights soaked with morning dew. And then Monty with Jasper, always smelling like weed and sunshine, friendship linking them so tightly they were almost one person. Lincoln, Zoe and Harper and Miller and Murphy and then Emori and Maya and Bryan. What a bunch of losers; wonderful, idealistic losers, rebels, who thought that they can heal the whole world with graffiti and vodka and golden words.

She takes her feet off the counter and stands on tiptoes to reach the whiskey; drowns one big sip with head thrown back and straight from the bottle, just like she used to when she was in college.

Clarke and Raven. Octavia, Monty, Jasper, Lincoln, Zoe, Harper, Miller, Murphy, Emori, Maya, Bryan.

And Bellamy.

She takes one more sip, memories burning her raw, more painful than the stinging liquor in her throat.

Bellamy Blake, his heart on his sleeve, the freckles spotting his skin as if the light inside him wanted to escape somehow. Hoarse rebel yell and hard muscles and the most beautiful eyes she has ever seen.

Bellamy who knew her by heart, whose soul was one masterpiece of light and darkness fighting for dominance, who could pin her to the wall her and kiss her, kiss her until she was drunk with him and then he could wrap her in blankets and sing her lullabies in Tagalog until it hurt her in the absolute best way.

Bellamy, one more thing she was so sure she managed to leave behind.

She takes a breath, then another; deep and deep and deeper, breaths in, but can’t seem to breathe out.

 

Clarke takes the bottle upstairs with her; slips from her clothes on the stair, leaving a trail of too expensive clothes and silk undergarments behind her. Drinks the rest of the whiskey naked in the bedroom; twilight light leaving shadows on her body reflecting in the huge mirror above her vanity.

She watches it critically; time left its mark on her skin and her hair is shorter now than it used to be and she is skinnier, more worn-out, bones sticking out where they never had-

But if it was a bit darker, if she squinted a bit, if she just tried she could almost see that girl. Careless girl, beautiful girl with glass castles in her mind and dark desires in her heart whenever Bellamy Blake looked at her. A girl with friends behind her back and a world ahead of her, ripe as a peach, ready for taking.

***

 

‘’It’s a cold day in heaven, my love’’ – sings the familiar female voice from the radio, as Clarke pours the eggs in the pan, melted butter hissing and the smell of onion, cheese and tomatoes filling the kitchen.

She woke up with ringing in her ears and white, thick mist in her head, being more than ever thankful that she’s not supposed to show up in the hospital before late afternoon. Lexa was gone before she opened her eyes – or maybe she hadn’t been at home at all, since the other side of the bed was left untouched. The empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood proudly on her bedside table like a screaming red sign saying ‘You Fucked Up Again’.

Clarke forced two glasses of water and Advil before she took a shower and now she is determined to eat something. Something proper and nutritious, something which would keep her up all day and which didn’t consist of cigarettes, alcohol or caffeine, aka her three main sources of energy these days.

Before she even knew, she was chopping tomatoes and onions. It wasn’t a surprise, taking into consideration she spent whole evening thinking about college and Bellamy and he was haunting her even in her sleep, with his warm mouth and messy hair. He used to make her scrambled eggs every time she woke up hungover, which was less common than now, but still happened quite often.

She closes her eyes for a moment, the image of blue plate with chipped edges and a cup filled with black lemon tea perfectly clear in her mind. It’s stupid that she still remembers it all. It’s not so weird that she started thinking about it, yesterday, but it’s unsettling that she can’t stop thinking about it now, when she’s sober and less tired.

 

‘’ I’m looking away/ You won’t hear me say/ I love you’’

She takes the frying pan from the cooker and drops the eggs on the plate. ‘’Cold Day in Heaven’’. Funny, Bellamy loved Delta Rae. Loved the music, the symbolism of the lyrics, the historical references. Marveled at the despair in the voice of the lead singer, the bloody red love she sang about.

She was always radio top 10 kind of girl, but it was hard not to fall in love with something about which Bellamy talked with such spark in his eyes.

Eggs are like paper in her mouth; Italian tomatoes are only a shadow of what they should be and she thinks that maybe it was not the dish that tasted so deliciously back then, but the life itself, when the cheapest grape schnapps was better than the finest French sparkling wine. She takes a sip of mint tea, hoping, praying the knot in her stomach would untangle itself soon; she doesn’t need to remind herself of all that was before. Facts are, she is where she is now, she made some decisions and now she gets to live with them.

No take-backs and definitely no benefits from taunting herself with the past long covered with dust.

‘’Clarke?’’  Lexa’s voice is quiet and soft in the corridor; she grew used to Clarke’s throbbing morning headaches. She doesn’t even comment on it now, like she doesn’t comment on empty bottles and clothes laying around and missed calls; she puts her shield on, playing brave, patient wife and purses her lips into a tight line until they almost disappear.

‘’I’m here.’’ Clarke drops the fork to the plate, staring into the half-eaten and already cold eggs as if they could tell her what to do next.

There is a click of heels on the floor and then the heavy sigh of surprise before  Lexa leans down and kisses her cheek, her sticky red lip gloss she bought her for last Christmas leaving a mark on Clarke’s skin. In the light of the morning she looks younger too; tired, with purple bags permanently tattooed under her eyes and a little wrinkle between her eyebrows that never really disappears – but her hair is still thick and brown, not a single streak of grey in it and she still walks with her head high and her back straight as if she was a ruthless ancient queen sitting on a throne made out of bones and rubies.

‘’Hey.  I thought you would be in the hospital?’’

Clarke thinks it’s an understandable assumption, since she’s pretty much always in the hospital. Or she says she is in the hospital, but that’s almost the same thing, at least from Lexa’s perspective.

‘’I’ve got an afternoon shift today.’’ She wonders if they’re gonna talk about the call. About the adoption. She suspects she won’t get lucky though and she’s not wrong.

Lexa sits beside her, nails tapping on the wood of the table and voice focused:

‘’Have you thought about what I told you? Regarding the adoption? I understand you may have doubts, but we’re in a perfect position right now and we’re-‘’

‘’Not getting younger? Please stop, you sound like my mother,” Clarke cuts in abruptly and shocking even herself. It’s been a long time since she had spoken to Lexa like that.  But last night- the memory of her old friends, the memory of her old self, all spitfire and royalty and glory – still twists her insides like an acid tumor.

Somehow, along the way, she fell asleep inside and now that she shook this sleep off a bit, all she is is– angry. So angry.

Hurt flashes on Lexa’s face for a second – enough for a wave of guilt to flood her body – but she regains composure as quickly as only she can.

‘’What do you mean, Clarke? I thought we talked about it. That we agreed we want kids and that we want them before we both turn thirty five. I don’t get why you get all defensive about this.’’

‘’Because we haven’t actually talked out anything!,” bursts Clarke, clenching her fists involuntary. (‘’oh god, what is going on with me, stop, STOP’’) – ‘’ We haven’t decided anything together! Yes, there was a talk about kids and age but it was –

‘’It was when, Clarke?’’ Lexa’s voice grows colder; the sun spilling into the kitchen turns pale.

(It was when we were both young and bright-eyed and I didn’t need coffee to function and alcohol to fall asleep and when you seemed like the best thing that has ever happened to me, like a knight sent to rescue me from myself, when we bought the house with the money we didn’t have, when we were  h a p p y. )

‘’It was a long time ago.’’ Clarke sounds faint and weak, even to herself. The weariness overcomes her body again; she wishes she drank something stronger than water after she woke up. She locks her eyes on the eggs on her plate, avoiding Lexa’s heavy stare.  She gathers all she has inside of her and drops the words echoing in her mind for way too long: – ‘’I didn’t decide anything. You did. You have a tendency to do this, lately. ’’

The air stands still for a moment and neither of them breathe. Clarke still looks down, but she can picture Lexa’s face perfectly; disbelief and then hurt, deep like an open wound. The words cut them in half like a sword, but there is no blood yet. The blood will come later and it will be an internal bleeding, sneaky and deadly, like the one that happens sometimes after she ends the operation and stitches the patient up only to watch their still, stiff body the morning after, death surprising them in the night like the unwanted visitor who couldn’t wait for the visiting hours.

Clarke knows Lexa wants to say something – about the bottles, about the clothes, about her work or even, just even, about Bellamy Blake – but she won’t.

The words will draw blood but it will be later and it will be so much worse.

Lexa takes a deep breath and stands up abruptly, almost knocking the chair to the floor.

‘’I won’t have a conversation with you like that. I think we should both rest and then come back to the topic. We’re too overworked to think clearly right now.’’ – With that, she turns around, heels still clicking on the floor as she makes her way upstairs, probably to take a shower and grab a fresh change of clothes, before she heads back to her office again.

‘’It’s almost funny that she talks about rest,” thinks Clarke, leaning down to the wine cabinet, looking for something possibly cheapest and most un-classy. She doubts Lexa has any sleep at all. She used to admire it about her – the dedication she has for her work, the passion.

Lexa would turn around by the doors and wink at her and say: ‘’Well, the world isn’t gonna chane itself!‘’ and then leave and Clarke would laugh at that, shaking her head all head-over-heels and full of hopes and wonders.

Now it all turns bitter, everything that was once precious. She takes a few sips and walks barefoot on the terrace; there is a hammock there and a blanket and with the help of this bottle she can have an hour or  two more of sleep before she has to drag herself back to the hospital.

 

**Part 2: wild**

 

**‘’ Leave this blue neighborhood**

**Never knew loving could hurt this good**

**And it drives me wild**

**Cause when you look like that**

**I never ever wanted to be so bad**

**And it drives me wild’’**

\- "wild" by troye sivan

 

*******

_Her breath forms a mist in the freezing January air; even tucked underneath two blankets and wrapped around by Bellamy’s arms, she can feel the cold metal of the hood of his truck._

_Not that she minds._

_He buries his face in the crook of her neck, his warm breath pleasantly brushing her skin and she tangles her fingers in his hair. Stars are impossible bright here, almost blazing in all their glory, so far away from artificial city lights. It’s quiet too; nothing disturbing the silence, but the soft melody coming from the beat-up car radio that still takes cassettes- it’s Kodaline and it’s beautiful._

_Bellamy mouths along to the lyrics and gets them wrong, his lips brushing her collarbone:_

_“Love like this will last forever”_

_It’s been half a year since she started university and everything slowly stops being weird and strange, but it’s still exhilarating and wonderful and odd like –_

_Like laying on the hood of the truck in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the winter, in the middle of the night, shielded from it all by the arms of this beautiful, beautiful boy that stole her heart, her breath, all so quickly and so easily._

_Her best friend. And her so much more._

_The cold air in her lungs and blood singing whenever he touches her; his hair smelling like smoke and pine; it all seems just like a new beginning._

_And maybe because she’s so young, maybe because she’s feeling so impossibly brave right now, she lowers her head, brushing his hair with her nose, her lips kissing his forehead._

_His fingers tighten on her waist, skim underneath her sweater and spread on her ribs, caressing her skin. They lean their faces closer, sharing breaths and she can see his irises all black and brown and shining in the dark._

_Half-step away from kiss, closer and closer, lovely words of the song messing in their heads and the stars so beautiful above it all, Clarke feels her heart breaking in the most amazing way, all at_ **_once._ **

**_***_ **

 

_Everything is mixed up, lines all blurred and non-existent; she hates that she loves him and she loves that she hates him and she cares too much and not at all._

_All at once, this delicious, freakish tension making her whole body tremble and her skin itch. Bellamy loves her good and fucks her right and looks at her as if she was breaking his heart with every movement and she gets high on every second of this madness. She wonders if she’s already insane or just very close, but she finds it hard to give a damn about it as he’s all buried in her and there are stains of colors spilling on the undersides of her eyelids, 4_ _th_ _of July fireworks making her dizzy, Bellamy’s heavy breath and her moans mixing with Octavia singing along to Guns n’Roses in the other room, getting ready for morning classes._

_There is an open box of Belgian truffles that her father sent her on the bedside table, taste of bitter chocolate still lingering on their tongues and their sticky fingers leaving marks on each other’s skin; brown smudges across Bellamy’s abdomen and Clarke’s thighs, covering bruises and hickeys._

_Bellamy murmurs obscenities and prayers in her ear and they both finish perfectly in sync, hips slowing down and stopping half-motion, his face buried in her neck, her chin resting on the top of his sweaty curls. His hand slips lazily from the small of her back and she rolls off his lap and collapses heavily on the mattress, shorts gone but the shirt still on, only the bottom of it hitched up to her armpits._

_She’s tired and full and she just wants to curl by his side and nap for a while but if she keeps him in the bed for a minute longer, he’s going to be late for work. He doesn’t need to say it for her to know it; he brushes off the hair sticking to his forehead, breath still heaving and muscles trembling, after-sex glow already slowly replaced by the anxiousness as he eyes the clock hanging on the wall._

_She pats his bare thigh to get his attention; she has keys and he should go._

_He looks down at her, face torn in half by want._

_‘’Clarke-‘’_

_‘’ Go.’’- she yawns, not bothering to cover her mouth; her hands are so heavy, they feel like they were made out of concrete. – ‘’Go, I’m going to sleep anyway. I’ll be there when you come back.’’_

_He smiles at her, raises his hand to caress her cheek with a fondness that makes her chest ache._

_‘’Okay.’’_

_Her eyes are already half-closed when he dresses up and gathers his stuff and when he leans down to kiss her forehead, still smelling like sex and chocolate and her – she slips into sleep easily and effortlessly, sunlight flushing her skin and Bellamy’s  flannel shirt thrown on her as a blanket._

_***_

_Raven braids her hair; fingers quick and skilled, she separates each streak, her long nails scratching Clarke’s scalp._

_Monty lays with his head in Harper’s lap and they both still have hiccups from laughing too hard and Clarke, from her place on the floor, can clearly see that Bellamy sends them half amused and half weary look, the perfect stare of a tired parent who is so fucking in love with his children who never behave the way they’re supposed to._

_It’s Friday night, they’re all slightly buzzed and they were supposed to watch Pacific Rim, but since they’ve all already seen it ten thousand times everyone kinda drifts into their own thing. The only person watching is Maya, because she’s fresh and new in their group and she doesn’t know how to navigate social dynamics yet; Jasper sits by her side and rather than at the screen, he stares at her._

_There are first loves and there are First Loves, the ones you can never forget or tear from your heart no matter how hard you’re trying and when Clarke sees Jasper looking at this pastel lace dresses girl, with awe bright on his face and his heart beating so fast whenever she touches him that everyone in the room can hear it – when Clarke sees Jasper looking like that, she really, truly hopes that this first love will be also the last in the best way possible._

_The air smells like popcorn and smoke; rain is dripping down the skylight above Lincoln’s head as he presses a ballpoint pen to the crook of Octavia’s elbow, blue moon and lilies blooming on her skin. There is a half-full glass of Coke on the floor next to Raven which Clarke sees in the corner of her right eye and Monty is tugging on Harper’s braids now, making her chuckle._

_It’s a normal Friday like many others before and many after. Nothing different, nothing unique. Just some dumb kids hanging out in Bellamy’s living room as always, making a mess in this kind of natural companionship that only outsiders like them know._

_Clarke looks around the room and then she looks up and now Bellamy’s looking at her and -_

_And she will be wondering, for the rest of her life, why that is the moment. Why that is the moment when they both just knew; that ordinary Friday night with their friends and Raven braiding her hair, Miller leaning on his shoulder. Why that’s the moment when they imprinted each other’s names on their hearts with iron, when they made a silent oath in this one stolen stare across the room and Pacific Rim flickering on the screen behind her back._

_Why that’s the moment that she’ll  be able to remember in painful detail twenty years later, that will stay in the back of her head when she is falling in love with someone else,  having sex with someone else, making  vows to someone else. Why that is the moment when stars aligned and the simplest, most obvious truth unraveled right in front of her very eyes._

_She is twenty one, she is in college, she’s wild and free and unstoppable and all those things will for sure change in time, but one thing won’t._

_Bellamy’s eyes are brown and soft and gentle and forgiving in a deeper way than this world requires; they touch her more tenderly than his hands would, they find her blue ones and stay locked on them. He reads her like a book, right from the beginning. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her;  golden hair pulled away from her face, head illuminated by the screen of the tv, his old shirt with holes on the sleeves and a pink dress underneath it._

_Some truths are so simple, that you almost want to laugh when you learn them._

_Bellamy loves her. Bellamy loves her, his wild queen, and she loves him, her rebel king. That’s how it’s supposed to be. That’s where they belong._

 

_When her dream becomes misty and blurred, when her friends disappear in grey, one by one; Lincoln’s shadow from the wall, Octavia’s laughter from the air, Raven’s fingers from her hair-_

Bellamy’s eyes are the thing that stays with her the longest, that keeps her breathless and dizzy. He loves her, he loved her and that’s the thought that stays with her even when she finally wakes up, hammock swaying, feet cold and face tear-stained.

***

 

_Octavia and Raven are swaying hips on the stage, (almost) literally smashing mics while singing MIA’s ‘’Bad Girls’’, when Clarke runs in late with mascara all smudged and red lipstick uneven._

_The ink stings the skin on her left arm, wrapped in white bandages and hidden under the black sleeve of a hoodie and still she feels as if everyone knew. That she has a new tattoo and that this tattoo is what it is._

_But well, nobody knows, nobody except for Lincoln who paused tattooing half-way, just to look up at her with his warm eyes and smile, saying : ‘’You’re making a right choice, putting your heart where you do’’ , without even opening his mouth._

_Clarke leans on the wall, not wanting to jump in yet. There is a strange kind of a sureness in her mind and she doesn’t want it to be disturbed, doesn’t want it to end. She really did put her heart somewhere, for better and for worse and she can see the rest of her life so clearly now, clearer than she thought it was possible.  There used to be an idealistic, vague picture of a dog and a kid and a figure beside her, all misty and pastel, but now everything took shape with a photographic, almost cruel, clarity –_

_Quiet nights and dusty roads, the smell of burned rubber and smoke soaking her clothes, Princess purring on her lap and Bellamy’s hands holding hers. Piles of dog eared books with pages yellow from old age and a neat row of succulents blooming on the balcony, Octavia’s college graduation diploma hanging above Bellamy’s desk and her childhood picture with Wells’ face pressed to hers framed above the fireplace._

_She hums along to the song, tapping a rhythm with her feet and searching through the room until her eyes find Bellamy. He’s  standing on the chair, arms raised above his head and clapping, whistling when Octavia and Raven bump hips and bow down, their ponytails swinging in sync._

_Maybe she never could imagine her life that well, never could decide on anything, settle for anything, because she hasn’t met a person she would like to share this life with. But it’s all okay, it’s all right, because she has that person now._

_Octavia jumps off the stage and runs through the crowd and suddenly, she starts to drag her brother off the chair, tugging on his sleeves and yelling something along the lines of ‘’It’s only fair!’’ , her laughter sounding like a thousand bells all at once. Miller moves forward to help her and suddenly Bellamy is chuckling, all red and standing on the stage of the small karaoke place they discovered a while ago. He scratches the back of his neck, licking his lips nervously when he’s asked for the song selection and ignoring the suggestions of their friends. Instead, he looks around the crowd, just like she has just done and when he sees her, he just smiles and she knows what his song will be, before the first notes hit._

_‘’All I am, is a man, I want the world in my hands’’ . His voice is deep and low, a little off-key and it tugs on her heartstrings._

_‘’Cause it’s too cold for you here’’ – the whole club bursts out and Gina swirls Raven around. – ‘’ ’So let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater.’’_

_Bellamy sways, his eyes firm on her, every word filled with the same clarity as the one in Clarke’s head .- ‘’And I might just take your breath away, I don’t thinks there’s much left to say.’’._

_‘’And then I watch your face, put my finger on your tongue cause you love the taste’’ – blasts in her ears like fireworks as she opens her mouth to sing along, walking closer and closer to the stage, people parting to let her through like a Red Sea._

_He kneels down, hand outstretched and ( ‘’So let me hold both-“) and he pulls her up to stand beside him, their foreheads pressed to each other, his curls in her eyes, swaying in one spot. (“- your hands in the holes of my sweater”)._

_Whole club swirls and pulsates with the beat of the song, the moment one in a million, a memory to_ –

 

***

remember.

There is a string of spit on her chin and she wipes it with the back of her hand, groaning as she stands up. Her muscles scream out in pain after hours of uncomfortable position in an old armchair; she has a cramp in her neck and can feel the headache coming, just like the storm.

Even her damn memory is biased.

‘’It couldn’t be all that amazing, could it?’’ she thinks, skimming though the thick pile of papers stacked on her desk. ‘’If it was, he would never leave.’’

The innocence of her younger self stuns her. She really did believe it would be that easy. That if you love you can do anything, go anywhere and the love will never abandon you. That you can give your heart left and right and not wake up in the middle of the night with an aching hole in your chest.

That love is enough.

‘’Doctor Griffin? ‘’ – a small, uncertain voice comes from the doors, spooking her. Papers go flying into the air and, as Clarke drops down to her knees to gather them, she realizes her hands are trembling again. ‘’Oh, I’m so sorry!’’

Carmel-colored hand covers her own, as the woman in a nurse uniform leans down to help her,  papers put in neat piles quickly and efficiently, with a skill of someone who has been working with overworked, insomniac doctors for a while.

‘’That’s okay, don’t worry.’’ – Clarke tries to help her when something on the one of the papers catches her attention. Octa-                                                         

                                                                                                                                                                                                  Her blood runs cold, freezing in her veins right on sight: ‘Octavia Wilde’ in bolded cursive, ‘medical history’ right underneath it – words are spiraling in her brain, the sudden tide of memories overflowing her mind. She’s aware the nurse is saying something to her, probably asking her what has happened, but all she can do is wave her hand in an universal ‘I’m fine’ gesture before snatching Octavia’s papers right from the top of the pile.

Octavia Blake- no, Wilde.

Wilde.

Clarke’s heart trips on its run as regret washes over her. She wonders what O looked like, getting married. Did she and Lincoln go on all-around-America journey on their motorbikes as a honeymoon? Did Bellamy give her away? How many people from their old pack was there?

She traces Octavia’s new surname with one finger. So some people really do marry their first real loves.

Sad Octavia, happy Octavia, angry Octavia, victorious Octavia; the bitter, cold vodka and scrapped knees, white lilies and sharp nails. So much life and so much rage in just one person. If she was a phenomenon, she would be an eclipse.

Clarke collapses in the nearest chair, clutching the paper as her eyes scan the lines. Is she sick? She has to be, if her medical history is here. Or-

2.03 AM, 6 pounds and 20.30 inches, healthy boy

Oliver Bellamy Wilde

Clarke’s eyelids shut close.

 

***

When she comes home, Lexa’s not there; only a faint smell of her perfume in their bedroom lingering in the air left of her.

Clarke slips into her father’s shirt, letting the comforting touch of soft cotton on her skin ease her mind. It has been years since she last needed this shirt, her equivalent of kid’s favorite plushie, but she’s been feeling a lot like child today and if she doesn’t want to just drop to the floor and sob her heart out, she needs all the comfort she can get.

Barefoot and with a glass of whiskey in hand, she climbs on the barstool in kitchen, tapping on the marble countertop as her laptop is awaking. She has this freaking poem stuck in her head and can’t get rid of it, can’t place it in time nor place.

‘’But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams, his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream,’’ – she whispers, as she types the words down in Google.

It all comes back in seconds, like lightning strikes and as those words leave her mouth she is transported right there, Octavia’s dorm room, the clean smell of Nivea hand cream someone spilled on the bed sheet and let it dry _, Maya’s voice loud and clear and powerful, ringing in her ears._

_“The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown, but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.”_

_Maya was wearing a white dress, her hair let down loose and usually shy and reserved demeanor gone and long forgotten as she recited Maya Angelou until her voice got raspy from tiredness and passion,_

_Bellamy’s hand hot on her thigh, his lids fluttering to blink the tears away._

Clarke’s fingers freeze above the keyboard as she’s struck with this though once again. Oh god, we really thought we could change it all, didn’t we? Make a difference, make it all _better_.

She looks down at her hands, a gold band and a diamond ring, muscles twitching and shaking against her will and there is so much bitterness in her that she could fill all the bottles of whiskey in the entire world and still wouldn’t get rid of it.

All those freaking years of running away from what world was forcing her to be… only to choose this fate herself, willingly. All those hoarse rebel yells and paint underneath her nails, all this broken poetry and wild, dirty love, just to go gently into that good night.

You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain, indeed.

_Wind wailing outside, her friends’ serious stares and sleepy smiles, Bellamy Blake raising her hand up to kiss her knuckles._

Clarke’s figure crumbles, as she buries her face in her hands, unable to sit straight anymore.

_I just want to go home._

***

 

There is one room in their house that Clarke never enters, but she’s doing it now.

Doors open smoothly in front of her; inside, it smells of vanilla and baby powder and fresh cotton and Clarke’s stunned for a moment of how this scent managed to stick for so long. Sun is spilling inside through the skylight, making the pale pink walls glow like the inside of a clam.

Her feet bury in the thickness of the rug and she takes a few steps until she reaches the rocking chair and sits down. Swaying back and forth, she looks around, hands laced on her lap and mind filled with white mist of numbness.

She remembers when she opened those doors the first time, came inside and turned around to see Lexa leaning on the doorframe. When all the anger she felt, all the feeling of being forced, rushed – all that evaporated into thin air as she saw with her own two eyes the way Lexa was looking at her standing it this room. The way her entire face was open up in such a tenderness and longing, that it felt impossible for a human to feel all that at once.

She remembers how she slipped Lexa’s teal nightgown from her, how she kissed her, how she touched her, how- everything felt like hope, sounded like hope, looked like hope and even more- like silent certainty, like being sure of where they were and where they were heading to.

Clarke bites on her lip, pain washing over her and the sweet smell of the air making her gag.

What used to smell like hope suddenly smells like bitterness and she can blame no one but herself. She should’ve learnt a long time ago that she should never be certain in anything. Or take anything for granted.

The nursery is beautiful, just like it was when she first saw it. The crystal beads in the carousel hanging above the little white cradle catch the light and turn it into a million spectacles. There is a line of plush bears patiently waiting on the drawer, all so soft they seem like a mist in her hands. Books, pictures, toys and blankets, everything reminding her of how desperately _empty_ she feels.

Reminding her, once again, how deep and terribly, utterly painful is the space between what she should want and what she actually wants.

 

***

 

The house looks… nice.

Nice and normal, a pretty fence and a big garden, rose bushes near the entrance and vine climbing up the walls painted yellow.

It’s a suburban fantasy and she just can’t imagine Octavia holes-on-the-knees Blake existing anywhere close to this building, let alone _living_ in it.

There’s a big, fluffy dog sleeping in front of the gate and she wakes it up when she presses the doorbell. It eyes her for a moment or two, waves its tail a couple of times and then rests its head on its enormous paws and goes back to napping, as if it decided that Clarke doesn’t pose a threat for its owners.

The gate opens with a buzz and Clarke stops for a moment, hesitant, until she steps on the cobblestone path leading to the front doors. Her heels make strange sounds in the pebbles and she feels a sudden wave of self-consciousness; there are Lincoln and Octavia living here and she is dressed like a god-damn perfect Stepford wife with pearls around her neck and curled, blonde hair. She couldn’t have chosen worse outfit.

The wooden floor of the porch is splattered with paint; spots of white and blue and rose underneath her feet. She raises her hand to knock on the door, but they open so rapidly, that the little golden bell hanging from the roof starts to dance on the breeze, ringing.

Clarke can feel her cheeks turning scarlet. There is a strange woman standing in front of her, wrapped in a sweater way too big for her little frame; strange, unfamiliar woman with short, dark hair and thorny roses blooming on her neck, the most beautiful tattoo Clarke has ever seen. Strange woman smelling like milk and mint and frost. Strange woman-

With the most familiar eyes.

Octavia Blake ages with grace nobody could ever deny her, but although she still has those eyes – both sharp and hungry, all at once, just like when she was eighteen – she is clearly a grown-up now and this though alone stuns Clarke to the core, her mind trying to match two images of two different women, merge them in one, and failing.

Octavia opens her mouth to say something, but then her eyes widen, brows raising up in surprise.

  * ‘’Damn, Clarke,” she says, breathless.  ‘’Who would have thought.’’



***

_Octavia lays down on the carpet, her head resting on Clarke’s stomach, millions of millions little braids framing her face like Medusa’s snakes._

_‘’How do you think it’ll all end?” she asks with a small voice._

_Clarke stares up at the celling, her vision hazy with too much wine and sleepiness, but still clear enough that she makes up the familiar black curves left up there by her own hand; Bellamy’s favorite quotes and Raven’s favorite constellations and secret chemical formulas of Jasper and Monty and Lincoln’s flowers blooming everywhere. And Octavia’s names, names of the women that took a step further, pushed harder and changed the world; Joanne D’Arc and Marie Skłodowska-Curie and Amelia Earhart._

_Clarke caresses Octavia’s hair, silently praying that this beautiful, wild girl will never lose it, this spark that makes her so special and so bright._

_‘’I think it’s going to be okay,” she whispers, lacing her fingers with Octavia’s. ‘’I think we’ll stay like this as long as we can.’’_

_One day, they’ll have to paint the celling white again, cover all the secrets and little pieces of their hearts that they left there.  But not yet, now, they still have time._

 

_***_

The living room is messy, but it feels more just lived-in and comfortable than dirty, even though Clarke suspects nobody has cleaned it for a while.  The baby left its marks everywhere; from plushies scattered on the floor and a pile of neatly-folded onesies on the couch to the empty bottle laying under the coffee table and security gate installed on the stairs.

There is also a little bed in the corner of the room, covered by white gauze and Clarke feels a sudden rush of heat when she looks at it.

Octavia seems to be unsure how to react around her but she invited her in and when she makes her a coffee, it’s exactly like Clarke used to have it in college; black, with no cream but four spoons of sugar.

She wonders when was the last time they saw each other; after Bellamy left, she broke in half and well, so did their little group. She suspects there’s no point in living, if the heart’s not beating anymore.

Octavia sits in front of her on the other side of the table, hands wrapped around her own cup.

And then there it is; the moment of awkward silence, the stop-motion, when both of them look at each other and try to recognize each other, try to find the right words to say what they want to say.

“How- how did you find me?” asks Octavia, staring down at her tea, dried chamomile floating at its surface.

“Well, I work at the hospital now. I kinda, uhm, stumbled upon your file. Saw the name, it’s pretty unusual so I thought there might be chance it’s you and-“ Clarke glances down at Octavia’s pale hand, silver band on her fingers, forged, so that it looks like a little vine with leaves sprouting from it made out of some smooth, green stone, “and then I saw your surname.”

Octavia nods, as if what Clarke has just said only confirmed her suspicions. They fall into silence again and Clarke starts to feel desperate; it’s rising in her chest until she can do nothing but open her mouth and say – _pleads_ :

“Octavia, I-“

“I know what you’re here for,” the woman cuts her off sharply, rapidly raising her head to face her, “And you’re not going to get it from me. “

From one to one thousand in mere seconds; that’s the Octavia Clarke knows. The tension in room rises sharply; they both stare at each other above their respective cups and something strangely alike to tears seems to flicker in both of their eyes.

“College was a long time ago, Clarke. A century even. Let it go. Don’t make me chose between you and my brother.”

“He told you this? Not to tell me where he is?” Clarke manages to get through her throat, words hurting it like sharp rocks.

Octavia drops her head down again.

“He told me to let you live your life.  He never actually believed he deserved you, you know? He wanted for you to move on.”

_But he knew it’s impossible_ . - echoed in the room, unspoken.- _He knew you’ll be looking for him. So he ran, like the coward he is and you let him, like the coward you are._

The baby’s cry pierces through silence.

Octavia jumps off the stool and rushes to the living room; soothing coos escaping from her lips before her hands pull away the gauze and reaches inside the cradle, raising something up.

Clarke stands still, frozen in place and she can just- watch.

She has seen this girl wild and thirsty for blood, she has heard her viciously sneer at the girl opposed to her in the makeshift boxing ring in the dormitory’s basement, she has held this girl close and smelled vodka and smoke and violence.

She has even witnessed her soft, loving; kissing Bellamy, kissing Lincoln, dancing on the table and laughing, red cup in her hand, lovely blush on her cheeks as she stared down on her new tattoo.

But this was- something so different, galaxies away from Octavia’s image in her head.

Octavia holds her son tightly in her arms, planting kiss after kiss on his little head covered in wild curls; one hand circling soothingly on his back. Oliver’s cries only intensify as if he felt his mother’s nervousness, his face pink from screaming appears above Octavia’s shoulder and his big, brown eyes find Clarke’s.

Octavia quickly turns around; she eyes Clarke with wariness and Clarke instantly wonders what exactly is painted on her face, which emotions she’s showing when there’s so much of them she can’t even name them herself.

“He’s just hungry,” she says above the crying, some kind of sweetness smoothing down the harshness of her voice.

Clarke looks around. “I can, uhm, wait for you in the kitchen, if-“

Octavia just shakes her head.

“You don’t need to.”

Sitting down in the armchair, she settles the baby on her lap, supporting his head and whispering something calmly. She then yanks her blouse down, exposing one breast and pressing Oliver closer; he latches onto the nipple immediately, one of his little hands spreading out on the skin of Octavia’s breast, brown sugar against porcelain.

Clarke leans on the wall and she knows she’s probably staring, but she just can’t- not, when she feels so much her system seems to overload, when there are one million thoughts in her head all at once.

Octavia caresses her son’s chubby cheek with one finger and sighs heavily, before turning her attention back to Clarke.

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, I saw you after you broke up. I know how much it cost you. I don’t know why you’re looking for him and frankly I don’t care, but I really can’t-“

“Octavia?”

Both Octavia and Clarke snap their heads in the direction of the door; there’s a large man standing in them and although time certainly left some marks on him as well, all Clarke needs is this voice- rich and deep as honey- to recognize him.

Lincoln.

He looks at her, brows furrowed as if he was trying to place her in time and couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Clarke? What are you doing here?”

He’s holding a leash in his hand and a sleek, black dog sits obediently by his leg. He’s also holding the hand of a little girl with two ponytails, who immediately breaks free from his grip and rushes to Octavia.

“Mama!” she screams and wraps her little arms around O’s knees, eyes fixed on her little brother- “Ollie!”

“Yes, Ollie’s eating, darling,” says Octavia, pressing one finger to girl’s lips. “And so what do we do?”

“Shhhhhhhh,” whispers her daughter, slowly nodding her head.

Octavia looks up at Lincoln, her expression unreadable.

“Clarke came here to ask about- where Bellamy is,” she says, sharply and quickly as if it pained her to utter those words, “but I think we already settled this matter.”

Clarke feels red waves of anger crushing over her. Why did Octavia betray her like that? They were friends. They were more than that, they were family.

Family.

But Octavia has a different family now. A husband who adores her. Two lovely children. And maybe college was, indeed, really a century ago and why would she be more loyal to her former friend with whom she hasn’t spoken since forever than to her own brother?

“Yeah, we did. “ Her voice is unrecognizable even to herself. Anger left her body, leaving only cold and she’s pretty sure she’s about to start shivering any minute now. “I think it’s time for me to leave. Goodbye, Octavia, Lincoln.”

She rushes though the doors as fast as she can.

 

She’s about to open the gate doors and go out when someone grabs her arm.

‘’Wait, Clarke.’’ Lincoln’s voice is soft, warm around the edges, “You forgot your jacket.’’

He hands her her trench and she takes it, mumbling a ‘thank you’ and turning around to leave when he whispers ‘Cape Town’ and she stops in half-motion.

”What?”

Lincoln has this sad half-smile on his face that she remembers well from the old times; it feels strangely unfitting now that she knows that he has Octavia by his side, house with white picket fence, two kids and dogs. This is the smile of a man who knows cruelty of the world better than most.

“He’s in Cape Town. Teaching ancient history and western mythologies.”

For a moment she wants to ask why – why does he tell her, clearly opposing Octavia- but then she remembers that he was there then too, when they were in the college. That he was the one who made her the tattoo, that tattoo. And that he witnessed what a wreck was left of her, when Bellamy left.

She nods, slowly. Cape Town. The last place on Earth she would look for him, not after so many years.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs.

“You deserve to know.”

 

***

Flashback:

 

‘’Dear Bellamy,” she writes on the top of the page, lips purple from cold, tears frozen into icicles on her cheeks and her hands all red, ‘’I miss you.”

‘’Dear Bellamy,” her pen makes a weird, scratching noise on the paper, ‘’why did you leave?’’

‘’Dear Bellamy,” she can hear her mother’s laughter; the engagement party is buzzing on the other side of the door, ‘’I think I’m making a mistake. ‘’.

‘’Dear Bellamy,” her knees are shaking; her beautiful wedding dress looks like a waterfall of ivory and white and all she wants to do is scream, ‘’I don’t even know who I am anymore.’’

‘’Dear Bellamy,” she writes during long shifts and lazy Sundays; she writes on Christmas and New Years and his birthdays and her wedding anniversaries; she writes and writes and writes until her hands bleed ink and betrayal. She writes all the things that bloom in her lungs, making her choke and then she can just hide it underneath her medical journals and forget, forget, forget, deny it all, fool her own wife and her own mind.

‘’Dear Bellamy,” she writes, staining pages with vodka and aching, ‘’I love you, I love you, I still love you.’’

 

She thinks about little Oliver, about how Octavia held him protectively close to her chest, about his little hands and little nose and freckles.

She thinks about her younger self, her first and last pregnancy scare that wasn’t really a scare because- as much as she didn’t want to admit it – she could feel the excitement bubbling deep inside her, happiness and love and hope. She thinks about Bellamy’s hand brushing her stomach, his forehead leaning on hers, silent promise with no words.

She thinks about the empty nursery in her beautiful, beautiful house and the blind panic running through her veins and all she can do is hate, hate, hate herself more and more.

She tosses the journals away, grabbing all the letters; tear-stained, and coffee-stained and alcohol –stained, all reeking of loneliness and one, big, bad choice – she grabs them all, all decaying and shattered pieces of her soul and tosses them to the bin, to rest atop rotten vegetables and egg shells.

 

***

_“Do you want to hear a story?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“It’s not a pretty one.”_

_“Tell it anyway.”_

_“It’s about a woman that fell in love. It was in Cape Town and it was summer and it lasted and then ended and it broke her heart and then it broke her mind.”_

_“Wasn’t your father from Cape Town?”_

_“Octavia’s. “_

_“Love doesn’t always do that, you know?”_

 

_“But sometimes it does.”_

 

***

 

It does end with a whimper, not with a bang.

It ends clean, like a bone breaking in two halves, like heart splitting in two - final, impossible to mend.

 

It ends with two women, who both knew betrayal when they see it, who both know that the mind is the one who betrays, that cheats; the mind and the soul, and not the body.

Lexa’s eyes are endless and cold like two dark, shiny river stones. She stares at Clarke in silence, standing in the middle of their kitchen with a pile of letters in one hand and the second one curled in a fist.

She doesn’t ask nor she discloses and neither does Clarke, even though she wonders; how did she find them? Did she drop something into the bin without paying attention to her action, went back and searched for it? Or did she somehow sense this change within Clarke and was just waiting on high alert for something to happen?

Did she expect this?

Lexa throws her head back and something between sob and laugh escapes her lips. Clarke’s heart clenches in her chest; there’s so much pain in this sound, as if a wounded animal was begging for help.

She takes a step closer to her wife, but Lexa turns her back on her, pressing the letters to her chest, leaving nasty smudges of rotting salad and yesterday’s chicken all over her silky blouse.

‘’Bellamy Blake,” she whispers, shoulders slumped and her whole figure shaking, ‘’it was always Bellamy Blake.’’

She doesn’t add ‘’right’’ or question mark at the end of this sentence. It is a sentence after all. One that holds truth so powerful and painful that it will probably end both of them.

‘’I- I threw them away,” says Clarke, barely getting the words out of her clenching throat.

Lexa makes that sound again and a new instinct wakes inside Clarke- now she wants to run, run as fast and as far as she can.

‘’Please, stop. Please.’’

Lexa slowly straightens up; the outline of her spine disappears from under the material of her blouse and Clarke wonders why she didn’t notice earlier how skinny Lexa has lately become.

“Just go,” she says, her voice all raspy and hoarse. “Just go to him”.

***

_‘’Fuck it, just fuck it, fuck it ‘’ – blaring in her head on repeat as she gave in, leaned closer; Lexa’s eyes are like liquid gold, opened up all wide and her lips are soft under hers._

_She opens up like a rose, delicate petals under all the thorns and sharp leaves; sighs and moans instead of cursing and biting. Clarke fumbles with the buttons of her shirt, but she’s stopped half-motion. Lexa covers her hand with hers, guiding her fingers with the skill of someone who knows grief and desperation and the bitterness that comes after you let it rule it._

_After after-glow evaporates into the morning air, Clarke lays on her side, tracing the tattoos on Lexa’s back idly, wondering about anything and everything and she silently promises something to herself and herself only._

_Brown eyes, rough hands, mouth full of gold and Greek tragedies; some things you can’t forgive, but you can forget, if you try hard enough. And you have to try hard enough, to live again, to love again._

_Lexa’s hair catches the light, hazel burning with all the shades of red and yellow and brown; she has goose bumps on her bare arms and Clarke wants to cover her from the cold. There is a pain somewhere inside this girl that lures her, summons her, calls to her like blood to blood._

_Clarke’s only twenty something and she’s already had her epic, breathtaking romance- it didn’t end well, it never does. What she wants now is some peace, is to play in a game where the stakes aren’t so damn high, is not to build glass castles in the sand but to have something permanent that she can lean on when the ground slips from under her feet. She needs something her mother always wanted for her; she needs to anchor herself and fall down from space._

_Lexa’s not Bellamy, but Clarke can’t have Bellamy now or maybe she never could. Lexa is something that she can have, though. Something that won’t slip through her fingers like sand and leave burning red scars on her skin in the process._

_She thinks of what Octavia told her - ‘’Well, if it really hurts you, then it really matters to you, right?’’ and wonders if the reversed version is also true._

_If it doesn’t really matter to you, it can’t really hurt you, right?_

_She just doesn’t want to hurt anymore.  Doesn’t even want to be the girl that was hurting._

_In the morning light of January, Clarke locks her heart up in a cage and throws away the key. And when Lexa wakes up, she erases the chocolate of someone else’s eyes with her amber._

 

***

**Part 3: already gone**

 

**“Perfect couldn’t keep this love alive**

**I didn't want us to burn out**

**I didn't come here to hurt you now**

**I can't stop**

**I want you to know**

**That it doesn't matter**

**Where we take this road**

**Someone's gotta go**

**And I want you to know**

**You couldn't have loved me better**

**But I want you to move on**

**So I'm already gone”**

\- "already gone" by kelly clarkson ( sleeping at last cover)

 

*******

 

_“You quit? “_

_“I-I  need to get away.”_

_“What do you mean you need to get away? Bellamy-“_

_“I think we should end this.”_

_Snow falls down around them like in a Christmas Lifetime movie; glistens in Bellamy’s dark locks and on his eyelashes as he blinks, eyes brown and pleading._

_It’s not even that late, but the sky has already turned dark and all there seems to be is snow and snow and Bellamy and she can feel the Earth shifting under her feet, her heart trashing in her chest like a wild bird in a cage. She wonders if that’s how it was for Raven when Finn left and instantly knows it’s not;  Raven was heartbroken, but if Bellamy leaves her, she’ll be- she’ll be-_

_‘’Clarke,” he croaks, his hand trembling slightly as he reaches for hers.  ‘’ This is – this is the right thing.’’_

_‘’Who thinks so? I don’t think so.’’ She wants to scream, she wants to fall down on her knees and beg him, beg him not to do this, cry and plead until he breaks and wraps her in his arms and stops those whispers in her head, makes everything right again._

_But she turns into a girl of snow and ice, words like icicles forming in her throat and never leaving it, choking her, leaving her breathless._

_He bites on his lower lip and looks away and – is it really that unbearable to look at her? What does she look right now? Transparent skin, bloody red heart barely beating in her chest, snow in her hair and pale cheeks? Terror written on her face, all the ‘please’ and ‘don’t’ forming on her lips?_

_He takes off his gloves and then his hand caresses her cheek, sweeps stray streaks of hair away from her face, so infinitely gentle that it hurts like a slap._

_‘’Say something, please.’’ –pleading brown eyes and this voice sending chills down her spine and all she can do is just stand there._

_It’s not really happening._

_It’s not really happening._

_Oh god, don’t let it really happen._

_‘’But I love you,” she whispers, flat and almost emotionless, looking him into eyes, unblinking (take it back, please)._

_Here is Bellamy, who knows her like nobody  has ever known, who knows from where she is going from and where she’s heading. Here is Bellamy, standing in the middle of the snowstorm, one hand on her cheek, tears already forming in his eyes._

_Here is her love, laying bleeding out on the snow, disgusting red marks all over the pavement, metallic smell of it making her gag._

_He stiffens, looks down and –_

_‘’It’s better for you to move on. We were never- we should have never-‘’_

_For the first time ever, he seems out of words. He shrugs, avoiding her gaze._

_‘’We were doomed to end up broken either way.’’_

_Those words knock the air out of  her lungs, stop her blood, stop her heart, stop her in place, freeze her. Her minds go on a  repeat of all the dreams she had, all the fantasies she cherished, plans of life she wanted to have and share with him._

_Castles in the sand, ice statues in June, fragile and beautiful and temporary._

_His fingers ghost above her cheek for one more moment and then he leans down; lips burning her skin, leaving scars and blood and the stain she’ll never be able to wash._

 

***

It takes only one suitcase for her to pack up all the things she doesn’t want to leave behind.

 

When she opens it in the hotel, miles and hours away, she’ll be surprised to find a bottle of Lexa’s perfume tucked in between her sweaters; a small crack in the  glass making the liquid leak and sink into the wool, leaving them soaked in the smell of lemongrass and tree bark, something screaming ‘Lexa’ without words.

 

But for now, her hands move by themselves, her mind already gone.  She packs up underwear and lipstick and a mug with a chipped edge, leaving important papers in the drawer and diamond earrings on the vanity, taking shampoo and forgetting toothbrush, bringing the old college photo album and not sparing her wedding one a second glance.

There is a strange kind of numbness inside her; she closes the suitcase and closes her eyes, the gold of her wedding band burning her skin.

She can almost feel it- she can almost feel how it felt to kiss Lexa for the first time, petal-soft lips and gentleness that caught her off-guard, knocked her on her ass, charmed her to the core. Sweetness of the spring rain and this – this mix of hesitance and confidence. Feeling safe. Feeling protected. Letting someone take charge for a while.

Clarke leaned down, letting her forehead rest on the cool leather of a suitcase. _A while._

Was it inevitable? Should she have  known, from that first kiss that what she and Lexa had was only a temporary fix, a haphazardous mend of the wound deeper than flash and bone, deep enough to reach their very bones?

Were they really destined to break and burn?

The mirror on her vanity is still broken; there is a spiderweb of cracks on her face reflected on the surface, picture of perfection until you look closer.

Long ago she hoped that Lexa could put her back together, even believed she managed to do so. If not Lexa, then time… but maybe Clarke was truly unfixable. Maybe she could learn to live with those cracks, if only she accepted them. But she wanted them gone and so she began to lose more and more pieces of herself; until all that was left was the woman looking at her from the mirror, short blonde bob, nude lips and all the broken parts of her put on display.

The suitcase doesn’t feel heavy in her hands; the wheels roll on the marble, soundlessly. She doesn’t stop on the doorstep to look back one more time, she doesn’t hesitate.

 

Wedding band slips off her finger smoothly and for a moment she can still feel the ghost of it imprinted on her skin, but then even this fades away. Soon, it’s almost like it has never been there in a first place.

 

***

 

_There is so much crystal and gold in the ballroom that it looks as if it was on fire._

_Lexa spins her underneath the giant chandelier hanging so low that, for a moment, Clarke’s afraid her hair will tangle in it.  She feels hot and clammy in her wedding dress, corset laced too tight and heavy up do, but it’s all worth just to see Lexa, smile dancing on her lips all night long._

_She looks so happy and tries so hard to contain it and, oh man, how she fails. Her face lights up whenever someone comes over to congratulate them again and champagne-colored lace dances around her legs as she twirls._

_Clarke’s dress is just white satin – long, sweetheart necklace and tight (‘’just not-not princess cut, for fuck’s sake, mom’’) and her cheeks burn blush and ache from smiling to too many people._

 

_It’s her wedding day and she’s so happy, happy to the core, to the deepest, most secret part of her; happiness buzzes in her head and runs in her veins along with champagne and wine and honey-scented whiskey she drank to calm down before heading down the aisle._

_She wraps her arms around Lexa’s waist, buries her face in her hair and inhales the smell of her perfume, thinking - ‘’This is the beginning of the rest of my life.”_

_Her mom is laughing, talking with someone on the other side of the room; there are some friends from med school present and some from her new work. But yet she keeps on scanning the crowd, looking for someone and when she realizes it, it’s like a block of ice sliding down her throat, until it freezes her lungs for a moment._

_When she was thinking about her wedding day it used to be flower crowns and Metropolitan Museum of Arts and running from the security guards._

_It used to be –_

_Lexa pushes her away gently, brows furrowed._

_“Is everything okay?’’_

_Clarke swallows, hard. It’s all fire and gold and crystal and her head is spinning. She feels a bit sick, swaying on her heels dangerously._

_‘’It is. I just need- I just need a moment. There’s no air in here.’’_

_Lexa nods and opens her mouth to say something when her friend Gustus emerges from the crowd, offering her a hand. Clarke smiles at them encouragingly and flees, because she just can’t-_

_Just can’t._

_The marble of the bathroom walls is cold and she presses her cheek to it, gasping from relief. She feels as if she is burning from the inside, on the edge of a fever. She splatters her face with the cold water and looks up to find her gaze in the mirror above the sink._

_Golden hair wrapped around her head in a million of millions of braids and twists; intricate golden headband keeping everything in place. Pink-blushed cheeks from dancing and alcohol (and panic), red lips and those wild, wild eyes._

_Her wedding she dreamed about in long nights while looking at Bellamy’s chest rising up and down used to be pink dress and jade vine wrapped around her waist and perched on the top of his head like a crown for a king. It used to be Octavia’s inappropriate dress and even more inappropriate boots and Raven all in red and Monty and Jasper sniffing and sobbing and moaning. It used to be a dream of a promise she knew she would keep._

_Someone bangs on the door and she jumps and walks out and dances and dances and-_

_( and can’t get rid of this uneasy feeling, no matter how much champagne she drinks, how much she kisses Lexa, how much she laughs; it’s wrong, it’s wrong. All wrong)._

 

***

The motel is cheap and simple, but, as sun comes out and the room turns golden, she can almost pretend she’s somewhere else.

It used to be- an imaginary place, some castle in the cloud, but lately it’s more and more often her old college dorm room, with Raven’s Alien movie posters slammed on every wall and a mysterious purple stain on the carpet.

She takes a bite out of a peach and juice drips down her chin, soaking into pillow as she stares numbly into cracks on the celling. There is a spiderweb of them; like a lightning strike imprinted on yellow paint.  Her body aches for whiskey, for vodka, for anything to soothe her shaky limbs and aching mind, but she forces herself to stay sober.

Cape. Town. A land of love and heartbreak in all the stories he had ever told her.

Is that where he was all this time? Studying and then working and – and just being all alone?

Or maybe not alone.

She closes her eyes and rolls around, pressing her face to the pillow; it’s been so many years. He may have someone, be married, have kids. But something about Lincoln’s expression was pointing her in a different direction; it was almost as if Lincoln was trying to point her north, to fix what was broken so long ago. Restore the balance.

 

_“Clarke, hey! Over here!”_

_Octavia was waving at her, her hand outstretched above the heads of people in the crowded living room;  electric blue eyes and tight dress, wobbling a bit on her high heels as she grabbed Clarke’s hand and pulled her closer._

_Clarke swayed dangerously, chuckling and letting Octavia guide her in between people and furniture._

_“Clarke, come here and meet my loo-oser brother!”- Octavia is already drunk and Clarke would find it more amusing if she wasn’t equally intoxicated herself; she can’t focus on anything, the whole world seems to turn into this bright, loud, blurry mist._

_Everything except the man standing in the very corner of the room._

 

_He has the most amazing pair of eyes Clarke has ever seen._

_The whole room seems to be swaying around him, orbiting as he watches people with those- those eyes, small smile dancing in the corner of his lips, freckles standing out against his dark skin. His fingers are tapping on his knee along to the rhythm of the music, absentmindedly._

_And here is a small moment, the fracture of second, the half-of-a-heartbeat, when he crooks his head a bit and his eyes find hers._

 

Clarke sits up, abruptly, jumping from the bed to the floor, wooden panels cold against her bare feet. She opens up the suitcase, digging through clothes until she finds it- sharp edges of a hardcover edition leaving marks on the flesh of her hands.

She traces the letters forming the title, his name and surname, sun and stars orbiting around it.  

“Sum of Our Parts” – she whispers, biting on her lower lip as she opens the book up-  the book still so new and fresh out of bookstore, black ink stark against white pages.

And then she starts to read.

_He’s kissing her skin through the holes in her jeans-_

_***_

 

    **Part 4: all night**

**“I was served lemons, but I made lemonade. My grandma said "Nothing real can be threatened." True love brought salvation back into me. With every tear came redemption and my torturers became my remedy. So we're gonna heal. We're gonna start again. You've brought the orchestra, synchronized swimmers.**

 

**You're the magician. Pull me back together again, the way you cut me in half. Make the woman in doubt disappear. Pull the sorrow from between my legs like silk. Knot after knot after knot. The audience applauds ... but we can't hear them.”**

\- "all night" monologue by beyonce

*******

 

University of Cape Town is stunning and it looks as if someone pulled it right out of the pages of a history book – she looks at it for the first time and all pieces click in place, like how can Bellamy even be anywhere else than here?

The woman behind the information desk has skin like polished mahogany and speaks perfect English with a British accent that makes Clarke’s head spin; she informs her that “Professor Blake’’’ has no lectures today and that she may try to find him tomorrow.  

She had nothing else to do today, so she just wanders around the town without any specific direction, Bellamy’s book in her bag and her hair half-tied up, just like she wore it when she was in college and Oh Wonder echoing in her head, blaring from her headphones.

Sun is mercilessly burning her skin through the layers of clothes and sunscreen and sweat begins to trail down her back, so when she sees a flash of green on her right side and “DeWaal City Park” sign, she changes the direction with no hesitation.

The park is simply lovely; people are jogging and walking their dogs or simply enjoying the weather from the benches. Trees cast blissful shadow and soon Clarke finds herself perched underneath one of them, “Sum of Our Parts” in her lap and her face tilted up for the sun to caress it. Delicate breeze brushes her skin, bringing smell of hot asphalt and green with it and then-

Then she hears it.

Her eyes snap open abruptly, her whole body on high alert, stiff to the point when all her muscles ache. This laughter, this deep, whole-hearted laughter that she could recognize anywhere and everywhere, this laughter carried by the wind and before she knows, she’s standing up; she’s running towards it.

_Oh, what are the odds? What are the odds of me finding Octavia’s file, of Lincoln telling me where you are, oh, what are the odds of you here, now?_

_Are we stuck in a limbo, how do you always find me? How do I always come back to you?_

 

Her first thought is surprisingly coherent; she sees him for the first time in so much years and he still looks exactly the same.

Yes, maybe there are new wrinkles on his face that weren’t there before; maybe there his clothes are a little more expensive and his hair is a little bit more tamed.

But his skin still reminds her of cinnamon and he still has his freckles; his laugh still rumbles like a thunder and there is still both danger and grace in his movements, the rebel king of an unfortunate bunch of kids that grew up but still naturally gravitate around him like satellites.

 

She looks like him; can’t stop looking at him; she is not that girl anymore, she burned her, changed her ring and did all the things that girl promised not to do.

And somehow, Bellamy Blake still looks like home.

He has a dog by his side, a brown mutt with fluffy ears and short of one eye, running around Bellamy’s leg and barking, his tail wiggling constantly. Clarke’s suddenly hit by the memory of Princess; her cat buried behind rose bushes in her garden such a long time ago.

Princess was small and sleek and nasty, but she freaking loved Bellamy. She would lick his hands like a dog and snuggle close to him on the armchair, until he was forced to cuddle her, meowing whenever he touched her, so damn desperate for attention.

Clarke and Princess had really many things in common.

 

White noise rings in her ears, electricity cracking in the air and then he turns around as if the gravity was forcing him to do it; he turns around and she can almost hear scratching of the rubber of his boots on the wet grass, steady beat of his heartbeat.

He turns around and looks at her standing in front of him, frozen, feet buried in the concrete and years older and his eyes turn-

Wild.

 

***

 

He drives her to his house, in the countryside.

She looks out of the window the entire time, watches unfamiliar views of roads and houses and nature as his dog curls on her lap and licks her hands.

It’s not a long way and soon they are there – small, white house with a wooden porch, hiding almost shyly behind old trees growing in front of it, shielding it from prying eyes. There is a river nearby; running water sings in her ears.

It’s nothing compared to the beautiful house she and Lexa shared. It’s small, even for one person, and although everything is pristine clean, it’s also clear that this furniture has seen better days.

Clarke instantly falls in love. It hits her quickly, painfully; it’s everything she has ever wanted without even being aware of that.

Bellamy pours some water into the red bowl and sets it down for the dog to drink.

She stands in the middle of his living room and doesn’t really know what to do. Once upon a time, she could read him so effortlessly, but the times have changed and they did too and now she’s stuck speechless. How to- how to say what she wants to say, when she doesn't even know how to articulate that?

And then.

“I read your book,” she says and he turns around to face her.

“You did?”

“Yes.” She takes it out of her bag, opens it up on the page marked with some random grass straw she found attached to her sweater. “There’s this part-

“You look at me, looking at you, with my face wet with the tears I spilled from my love to you,” she recites, finger trailing along the words in the book. – ‘’Good sentence. A bit long-ish, but I suppose you’ve always had a tendency to do that…’’

He sits crossed –legged on the sofa and stares at her, wordlessly. She wonders if she has ever seen him like that - still, that frozen.  He’s beautiful like that, a statue carved in expensive wood instead of marble, a study of perfection lovingly outlined by the moonlight.

She wonders how it is even possible for him to touch her heart like that, after all those years.

‘’Although, the only tears I remember are mine,” she continues and his features crumble and twist, as if she hit him in the face.

‘’Clarke.’’

She puts the book down; enough for now, too much drama even for the two of them. The mattress squeaks underneath her as she sits right next to him, close enough for their knees to touch. The room is silent,  except for  their breaths- inhale, exhale, and Clarke hates the way they only need a few seconds to get in sync again, their heartbeats matching, their arms itching to wrap around the other person.

“I –I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she says, before he asks, staring at the material of her jeans not to look at him, ‘’I spent all those years not thinking about you and then suddenly you crossed my mind and-‘’

She wishes she could say ‘’and everything went to shit’’, but it’s not the truth and there’s still something inside her that makes her unable to lie to Bellamy.

‘’And I couldn’t shake it off,” she finishes weakly.

‘’Shake off what?’’ he asks, his warm fingers wrapping around hers, thumb caressing her hand lightly, like a feather. This gesture, so familiar, it doesn’t make her dizzy or her breath catch.

It just makes warmth spread across her body, as if someone wrapped a blanket around her. It just makes all of her muscles relax and her heartbeat calm down. It just makes her feel safe.

‘’The feeling that something is wrong. That something is not the way it should be,” she answers, closing her eyes to see Lexa’s face twisted in pain and sorrow. Her heart doesn’t clench and she hates herself so much, she could burn everything around her with the passion of that hate alone.

“Clarke,” he whispers. She feels his hand on her cheek, soft, loving. “Tell me everything. And then I will.”

So she talks.

***

The bad things: empty bottles, eyes red from weariness, trembling hands and blood, caffeine and numbness. How it feels to watch your love run out of you, like a water dripping from a leaking tap. The nursery. The loneliness that seemed to freeze her heart in her chest. Fancy parties and fake smiles and fake laugh and fake gold, fool’s gold.

The good things. The beginnings. Lexa’s voice, sweet and tender, beautiful nothings shared between lovers, the way the lake would reflect sun in the dawn, all the hearts she helped mend, all the times she stopped them and made them go on, the eyes of the people that were given a second chance to live, just live. Honeymoon in Canada, freezing cold water and glorious technicolors of the bridesmaid’s dresses on her mother’s wedding.  

*******

And long, long after she ran out of words and he ran out of answers, she asks him, her voice so filled with emotions that it is almost cold:

“Why did you leave?”

He told her so much about his lonely, quiet life, how he came to Africa and studied and dreamed and dared and about what he accomplished and about the dog named Victoria that he found half-dead on the side of the road one summer afternoon. He told her almost everything- besides this one thing.

The one thing that brought both of them here.

“Remember when you took me home to Carolina, to meet your mother?” he starts with a question.

She nods. Of course, _of course_ she does remember that. That’s when she let herself truly fall.

You don’t forget moments like that.

“I saw,” he says, quietly, staring at the celling and avoiding her eyes, “I saw the way your mother looked at me. At my clothes, my hands, my...  As if I was some kind of rabid animal, ready to bounce and bite you any second.”

A wave of emotions crashes over her, as she recalls all of this- teal roses in the garden, white columns on the porch of her family manor, her mother’s cold smile as she was shaking Bellamy’s hand-

Bellamy’s hands, which she, Clarke, _adored._ Those calluses, this rough skin, the little freckles on the palm, a net of veins on the inside of the wrist.

Bellamy’s still talking and all she can think is _I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t notice how you feel, I’m sorry I didn’t make it easier for you, but this didn’t matter. All of this didn’t matter to me then and certainly doesn’t matter now._

“And then, at the garden party. Walking down the stairs like a goddamn princess in that white dress”- _lace delicate as spider web, diamonds woven in her hair and lips painted red, oh, she remembers it, it was all for you, Bellamy.-_ “ And I realized what kind of life you’re going to live, if you stay with me. I could picture it all. How you’d waste away like my mother, how I’d turn into my father, or Octavia’s father, how you’re never gonna smile at me like that again and how one day you’ll wake up and look at me and I’ll see only –“

Despair. Disappointment. Hatred.

Before he can end this sentence, she covers his mouth with her hand.

“Shh.”

_I would never do that_

_You would never do that_

_You know it._

***

 

Her fingers tap on the wood along to the rhythm of the music; it’s something she has never heard before, but it makes her toes curl somehow.

His breath is warm on the back of her neck as he wraps one arm around her waist and they slowly sway in place; her hand finds his, lacing their fingers together and she closes her eyes.

Sweet trumpet tones and silver cello, gentle and delicate; his lips find the bare spot on the base of her throat and she gasps. He kisses her, softly, softer, the softest – soft as the silk of his shirt underneath her fingers as she scratches across his back, her nose buried in his hair smelling like this mint shampoo she remembers oh so well that it’s almost a muscle memory **.**

Sun is slowly setting behind the window, casting long shadows across the floor; the swan song, the moment when it’s all burning and violent and wonderful before it gets dark.  Crickets are singing and moths dance around the lantern lit on the patio, lured by the light to the agony and death.

Clarke’s head falls back as Bellamy’s hands clenches around her thighs, raising her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, her hair falling down her back and he kisses the column of her neck leaving a trail of forest fire on her skin,  making her whole body tingle as if it was asleep and he awakened it with his touch.

Guitar gently weeps, nose bumping against nose, cheek brushing against cheek, his fingers caressing her thighs and her fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt for her nails to dig in his back, making his breath catch. He sets her down on the sofa, kneeling in front of her to kiss her hips in the spots his hands have been, but she pulls him up; she takes his face in her hands, tracing his features lovingly; the slope of his nose and the bow of his lips, the arches of his brows and the sharp lines of his jaw.

He’s beautiful, still beautiful, so beautiful as if she made him up; scars and starlight and all the pain her left in his wake and she loves him. Desperately. Utterly. Completely.

She kisses him.

Opens up her lips, unravels, shatters; here is the love that broke her in half and left her ruined and she still wants it, still needs it so much.

Here is the love she will never manage to wash off her.

He kisses her like a starving man; he kisses her as if he could never get enough of her, as if she was the only thing he ever wants to touch.

“Clarke,” he whispers against her lips, his thumb caressing her cheek.  “Clarke.”

“Always,” she answers, before he manages to ask. “It’s always you.”

She pulls down the sleeve of her blouse and there it is again; the trace of Bellamy that stayed with her even after his smell had vanished from her sheets and his books from her shelves and the hickeys he left on her disappeared from her body.

The mark he left on her that remained there even as she was wearing Lexa’s ring and making love to her; the sight that some part of her has always remembered.

Bellamy touches it delicately; the constellation of stars, stars that meant so much to the dreamers they once were and black letters curving in calligraphy.

“Magic to make the sanest men go mad,” he reads, tears making his dark eyes glisten, hands trembling just like the first time he saw this tattoo.

“We were so young, Bell,” she whispers. “So young and so in love. And I know we aren’t anymore but still- I still feel about you just the same.”

Long, sleepless nights, making love and reading books, classics and poetry, music painting the world in gold and Bellamy, Bellamy making it all magic.

_His fingers dancing on her ribs, caressing the shells of her ears, the insides of her wrists. His loud voice echoing in the small college dorm, transforming it into something beyond. Kings and Queens, Queens and Kings and darling, we were ruling them all._

His lips brush her arm, peppering small kisses all over the ink and her back arches.

Her hair is shorter, her bones are more fragile, her skin not as smooth as it used to be- but they still have time, together, if he wants it. If they both want it hard enough. They still have so much time left to burn, to shine, to do all the things they wanted to and never did.

He takes her left hand, caressing the knuckles with his thumb, staring at the white patch of skin where her wedding ring used to be.

“I can’t believe it, Clarke,” he says, serious and low, more to himself that to her, really. “I can’t believe you’re really here. I can’t believe what you’re saying to me.”

He presses a kiss on her ring finger, almost absentmindedly, still avoiding her gaze.

“I never believed in second chances, you know.”

Her heart grows in her chest, expands with this inexplicable _fondness_ that she feels for this boy, for this man. Yeah, he never believed in second chances, because he never had a reason to do so. This world had never given him one.

She had never given him one. He left and she let him; with her heart bleeding on her sleeve, but she let him, didn’t look for him until now.

She still feels all of this; anger and sadness and desperation and guilt, all those tangled up emotions at years wasted.

“Bellamy.”

“Bellamy, all this time... We lost it all, because you didn’t believe I’m capable of making my own choices. Are you going to make this mistake again?”

He raises his head sharply to look at her, eyes impossibly dark and bright at the same time. And then something else overcomes her; a new kind of fear she didn’t even think about until now and it seems so stupid-

“Unless you don’t- don’t want me anymore.”

Those words fall in between them, as heavy as stones. He’s still silent and her heart races like crazy. Could she be mistaken? Could she really have read it all so wrong, the way he looked at her and touched her and the lines in his book; maybe she imagined it all, all those silent “iloveyou’s” all around-

“Clarke.” –he croaks, his voice so changed that almost unrecognizable. He moves closer to her and in split second their foreheads touch and he raises her chin up, delicately, barely brushing her skin. “Clarke. It is impossible for me not to want you. Don’t you understand? All those years-“ his voice breaks and she, she thinks she may be crying at the pure pain in his voice, so perfectly mirroring her own. “All those years I was trying to fool myself into loving someone else, finding someone else and still, I come back to you. Always.”

There’s a new song playing and she recognizes it, it hits her all at once.

“ love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken-“

She closes the distance between them in one, swift  motion.

“hallelujah”

***

She just barely opens her eyes to look at him, the best kind of weariness overcoming her body, warming her up like a thick blanket.

‘’It is a dream, isn’t it?’’ she whispers, because if there is a moment for being sappy and cliché, then that’s the one.

The corners of his lips go up; he raises his hand and caresses her cheek with his knuckles, slowly, deliberately, electricity cracking on her skin under his touch.

‘’Yes. And it’s mine.’’

 

**Part 5: silhouettes**

**There's nothing that I'd take back,**

**But it's hard to say there's nothing I regret.**

**Cause when I sing, you shout,**

**I breathe out loud,**

**You bleed, we crawl like animals,**

**But when it's over, I'm still awake**

 

**A thousand silhouettes dancing on my chest,**

**No matter where I sleep, you are haunting me**

 

**But I'm already there,**

**I'm already there.**

**Wherever there is you,**

**I will be there too**

***

_Clarke dips one feet in the water and backs away, giggling from too much champagne._

_‘’It’s so cold!’’_

_She trips and almost slips on wet grass when –_

_A breeze of air_

_A smudge of brown and white and silver._

_Lexa jumps into the pool on full speed, splashing so much water that Clarke can feel her dress soaking with it, cold droplets running down her back and chest making her squirm._

_‘’Fuck!’’ – she cries out loud,  wrapping her arms around herself, trying to get warmer. Still, there’s something bubbling inside her, hysteria and amusement and she can’t help, but laugh._

_Lexa is floating in the pool, head and shoulder above the surface, her long, brown hair wet and sticking to bare skin, smile wide and lights at the bottom of the pool making her translucent._

_She looks like a mermaid, like a siren, as if she was ready to make a man worship her and then eat him alive._

_She is so, so beautiful, that Clarke feels her heart breaking, hard and fast and painful. She kneels near the edge of the pool and leans down; lets Lexa kiss her with her wet, cold lips, and when she feels her hands on her waist, tugging her closer, she gives in._

_She falls into the pool, breaks the surface; for a moment she keeps her eyes closed, but when she opens them, she just can’t stop looking. Light casts spots and shadows on their bodies, the materials of their expensive dresses floating around them as a mist, their hair and limps tangling with each other’s. She can hear nothing but the gentle hum of blood in her ears and Lexa caresses her cheek delicately, bubbles escaping from her mouth and pearls around her neck._

_There is an unspeakable beauty in this moment, striking lightness she has never experienced.  There is a wonder and a miracle and something between them that makes hearts beat and worlds moving and people living, in spite of everything._

_Clarke takes Lexa’s face in her hands, pulling her closer; she kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, until she grows dizzy from the cold and lack of air, until it’s all dream and no reality._

_And she never wants to come back to the surface ever again._

 

Amber gold, honey-dripping sunlight spilled on the grass, setting everything on fire in front of her eyes as she stares out of the window.

A flock of white birds set off from the bridge of the river; their silhouettes long and graceful, their shrieks piercing her ears as she leans on the wooden railing of the patio. It’s calm and still and wonderful; she can’t believe she’s really there and she doubts she’ll ever manage to.

But that’s okay. They have time.

 

Bellamy wraps his arm around her waist from behind, pulling her closer and, as his thumb fits right between her breasts, caressing tender skin -

She breathes out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's it! You made it! Congrats!  
> ( joking, of course. It's not THAT long) 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for clicking on my fic and making it to the end. If you liked it, please leave me some kudos and comments? Maybe? Right now, lovely comments from my reaaders are probably the only thing that gives me ANY motivation to write, so I'd really appreciate it, if you wrote me a word of two of your thoughts. 
> 
> Edit:  
> If you want to state that my fic is lesbophobic, please don't leave any comments. Thank you. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr as alltheworldsinmyhead and i love chatting with people about random stuff ;)


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